


Fifty Shades of Winter

by dreforall



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Fifty Shades of Grey - All Media Types, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 50 Shades of Grey Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, BDSM, Crack, F/M, Gen, I blame the Oscars, I made this on a dare, I suck at tags, Romance, do not take this seriously, no really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreforall/pseuds/dreforall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifty Shades of Gray was nominated for a freaking Oscar. I made a dare with a friend that if it won I'd dedicate myself to writing bad porn. Bad fanfic porn. Bad, BDSM, fanfic porn. It didn't win, but by then it was too late. I blame her.</p><p>Kindly do not take this too seriously. I don't. :p</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jon Snow meets Sansa Stark and they are not related.

I will kill Samwell Tarly.

OK, calm down, Jon. It’s just a job. No, it’s even less than a job. Just a boring fill-in for an unfortunate friend with an unfortunate cold who -- unfortunately -- is not willing to give up a juicy story for some sensible rest and had to send me instead.

Why am I even doing this is beyond me.

Just my luck.

Sam is the journalist. He’s the one doing the masters in whatever those journalist types do. Me, I’m in Westerosi Literature. My focus, Regency Period. Riverlander Literature. Cliché, I know. Not very manly, either. But it’s not my fault I find inordinate delight in the words of the likes of Jane Austen and the Brönte sisters. They are perfectly sensible writers with a sense of lyricism.

But, I digress. The thing is, I’m not a journalist. I’m a writer. A poet, even, sometimes.

Sam’s the journalist and he’s the one who got an interview with Stark.

Thing is,  _ nobody _ gets interviews with Stark. She’s one of the most reclusive, difficult billionaires in the North (in fact,  _ the _ one billionaire in the North, her wealth lesser only than that of the Lannisters in the West, and close, if not higher, than that of the Tyrells in the South), and that Sam got it at all is a small miracle.

Just so that he’d fall sick and send me to botch things up instead.

I should’ve said no but Sam’s puppy looks are  _ very _ effective.

Damn him.

This is how I find myself before the headquarters of Winterfell Incorporated, at precisely 10 am. The glass doors seem wholly incompatible with the almost Neoclassic structure of the building. An odd combination of modern and ancient.

It is said that the area where the Winterfell HQ rests was once the family seat of the Starks, back when there were still Seven Kingdoms. The castle had been built by the mythical Brandon the Builder prior to the arrival of the Andals and the establishment of the Targaryen dynasty, and sustained severe damage in the War of Winter, but somehow, the property never left the unbroken line of the Starks.

Today it was a neoclassical building in what felt like glass and white marble, sprawling and lovely, and bearing the logo of the company -- the direwolf -- emblazoned on its doors, just a shade darker than the glass.

I stand there looking at the Lysene-style columns and wishing fervently I was somewhere else.

Truth is, I went for literature due to being too cripplingly shy for anything demanding social interaction. I could teach lessons -- that was something else altogether -- but the idea of engaging someone and asking them questions is simply terrifying.

Well. Nothing to be done.

I take a deep breath and walk in.

The foyer is completely at odds with the outside. It’s modern, all white floors and white walls and white, tasteful, indirect lighting, glass and chrome. There are what seem to be expensive pictures on the wall, most of them historical scenes of the North.

The receptionist is as Lysene as the pillars outside. White-blond hair, supermodel good looks, purple-blue eyes to die for and a  _ tailleur _ so well made I am sure it is worth more than, well, everything I own, combined. I am sure that, when standing, she would be taller than me.

Not that I am very tall, myself, but  _ still _ .

She stares at me, no smile, full efficiency. I stare back, trying not to feel awkward and scruffy in my black jeans (clean, fitting ones) and black shirt. I can almost taste the disinterest through the polite mask she wears. If professional indifference has a face, hers is it.

But, being brave, I walk up to her desk and flash her a smile she ignores.

“Good morning sir, may I help you?”

“I am here for an appointment with Mrs. Stark,” I say and at least I’m not stuttering, “in Samwell Tarly’s name.”

She looks at me and at the screen before her. Taps a couple keys.

“Your name?”

“Jon Snow.”

She types. I watch.

“Okay, Mr. Snow. She will receive you in a moment.”

Perfectly polite, but I can  _ feel _ the dismissal in her tone, as much as the on-point stiletto heels I know she’s wearing. There is a couch across from her desk, with a center table and a few magazines, under tasteful paintings with almost cozy, indirect lighting.

I don’t sit. The couches -- all white -- look more expensive than my house.

Turns out I don’t have to. Not three seconds after the receptionist dismissed me, another Lysene goddess in a similar outfit steps out of an otherwise unseen door to the right, calling a soft, “Mr. Snow?”

This one is more approachable. She smiles as I walk up to her.

“Come with me, please,” she gestures, I follow.

This one is as model-like as the former, though slightly shorter and with a haircolor closer to honey blond. Idly, I wonder whether the Stark heiress looks like these ones. Sam would know, but I don’t; I don’t tend to pay attention to billionaires, especially not ones who’ve won their billions in business rather than the garden variety arts and sports. 

The blonde at the reception desk and this one could have been sisters. Maybe even twins. Clones, perhaps.

Maybe robots. Stepford-style, unapproachable, Lysene robot-women.

We take the lift, the smiling one as silent, unapproachable and elegant as the receptionist. Through no fault of hers, I feel myself tense like a bowstring, so much I cannot wait until the  _ ding _ announces our arrival at the appropriate floor.

Of course, when it does, she spirits out before I can even catch my bearings, which of course forces me to scramble after her and through the glass doors to the Stark heiress’s office --

\-- and of course, as if the whole situation wasn’t awkward enough, I manage to get tangled in my own feet and faceplant right before the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon have their interview.

Legs that went for days. Sensible shoes that nonetheless looked far too expensive to tread mortal lands -- no heels for Sansa Stark -- padding closer to me. Tailored slacks, black, held to a tapered waist by a glossy leather belt, also black. A dress shirt, modest and androgynous, closed up to the neck, long-sleeved and buttoned by silver cufflinks.

Entirely in black except for the direwolf pendant resting just above the swell of her breasts, glowing silver. But for the pale skin of her face and hands, clasped before her, and the cascades of red hair down the front of her shirt and her back -- in that shade between orange and actual red, like a sunset, like Lady Godiva on her horse, down to her waist.

The women outside were gorgeous, model-perfect, and like most models, a little unrealistic -- as if they didn’t quite belong to this side of reality.

Sansa Stark isn’t model-perfect. That makes her even  _ better _ , somehow. Unlike the other women, she doesn’t feel like a robot. There are freckles on her hands, which I bet also crawl up the length of her slim arms, and on the bridge of her nose.

And  _ young _ . She looks entirely too young, thirty at most, too young to be so damned  _ rich _ already.

“Are you alright?”

The amused lilt in her voice would’ve killed me if I wasn’t too dumbstruck to care. One perfect eyebrow cocks at me as a hand stretches down to help me up. I take it, and force myself to not look like an idiot, or feel the soft skin of her palm against mine.

“Yeah, sorry, I, ah,”

I climb back to my feet and force myself to look at her straight in the face even though I can feel the blush running down my neck. What a way to introduce myself. Even her eyelashes are reddish, framing eyes as blue as the summer sky. I should say something, but don’t.

“Mr. Tarly,” she fills the silence, and whatever amusement she had seems to have died, as she sounds perfectly polite, even gentle. “I am Sansa Stark.”

Of course she is. Who else?

“I, ah. Sorry. Mr. Tarly was not able to come today, so he sent me in his stead…”

“And you are?”

She smiles. I wish she didn’t. It makes it hard to focus. She’s perfectly pleasant, her expression gentle and even soft, polite to a fault and just as distant as expected.

Gods, please kill me now.

“Jon Snow, er, ma’am. I am Mr. Tarly’s friend. I study at Winterfell U, doing my masters in Westerosi Literature, he’s in Business Journalism,” and I’m babbling like a complete fool. I am not usually so tongue-tied, but this situation is already awkward enough without a veritable goddess like Sansa Stark staring at me.

She nods, still smiling, and gestures to a couch. Her office is wide, spacious, and clearly designed for more than one person -- probably where she receives her business partners. I can see something akin to a bar at a corner, and the leather couch set looks extremely comfortable. There’s even something like a small dinner table -- a lot simpler than I’d expected.

Her desk, or what I assume is her desk, is all chrome and glass and lies next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking a garden. I can see lemon trees shading the precise position of her desk, casting shadows across the floor and the desk.

I sit, and she sits across from me. The chair she settles in looks modern, and as dark as the couch. Everything in the room is modern, a mix of modern and classical. I guess it fits the woman before me. Even the walls, while white, feel warm.

Intimidated, me? Imagine that.

“Do you mind if I record our interview?”

She smiles and shakes her head. I find myself smiling back, setting the recorder on the coffee table between us (glass and chrome, as her desk). Inexplicably, she makes me feel at ease, even though the expression on her face is still perfectly, neutrally polite.

“I’m assuming Mr. Tarly explained the reason for this interview?”

She nods, gestures for me to go on. I sure hoped she did, because I don’t. I don’t have to. I need only follow the script and do my job and then I can go home and fantasize about glorious, beautiful and way out of my league Sansa Stark for the rest of eternity.

I take the script out of my backpack, trying not to fidget under Sansa Stark’s quiet gaze. One of her hands rests on her thigh; the other plays with one lengthy red lock, curling and uncurling it. I wish I wasn’t so attuned to her every movement; it makes it painfully hard to pay attention to what I am doing.

Finally, papers in hand, I turn the recorder on.

“So, Miss Stark, you are often lauded as the youngest billionaire in the world and most influential woman in Westeros right now, right behind Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Would you please tell us how you’ve managed such a feat at such a young age?”

I am rather proud of how my voice is not shaking at all.

“Well, Mr. Snow, to be quite honest with you, I cannot take full credit for any of this. I had quite the head start, don’t you think? The Stark family business has been around for well over a hundred years, though yes, it had fallen into very hard times before I assumed it. I had quite a few good mentors, too. Great ones, even. I owe much of what I’ve learned to them.”

That damnable smile. I wish I could record it, as well as her voice. A small, polite, impossibly sweet smile. It makes her eyes crinkle. There’s a lot she is not saying behind that polite smile, I just know it.

“You are modest, Miss Stark. Some would say too modest.”

She laughs. I want to bask in it forever. I have met the woman for a whole three seconds and I am already smitten.  _ Doomed _ . I am so doomed. Yet she is deflecting the question with platitudes and for once, I am curious. Truly curious.

“Well, if you  _ must _ know,” she sighs, but there’s a teasing feel to it. “Business, all business, is a matter of trial and error. I made a lot of mistakes throughout my life,” and again, that feeling there’s something she’s not telling me, and that she’s not necessarily talking about business. “But the trick is, learn from them, adapt, and move on. You always have two choices, Mr. Snow. You either crumple and give up, or you overcome. I chose to overcome.”

Chose -- or had someone choose for her.

“That’s very inspiring, Miss Stark. Almost like something someone would pick in a self-help book.”

I mean it as a joke, though, as most jokes, it  _ does _ have a kernel of truth -- she  _ does _ sound like a self-help book. I can’t help the feeling that this is a practiced speech, and something in me makes me want to dig under her skin. Maybe it is the utter calm in her lovely face, the perfect mask of politeness she wears.

The mask does not falter, though her lip curls almost imperceptibly. The flash in her eyes, however, is something else altogether. It would’ve been unnerving if I wasn’t prepared for it. They focus on me with a single-minded intensity, like a hawk watching prey.

_ Touché. _

“Mr. Snow,” she begins again, slower, almost like a drawl. “People tend to ignore the obvious. That is how people make a lot of money conning others with get-rich-quick schemes. Everyone knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just, most are too  _ lazy _ to apply them, or lack the resolve to do so over and over again until it  _ works _ .”

She’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She  _ does _ seem very young, younger even than me (though I suspect her to be my age or slightly older), but the look in her eyes does not, neither does the hint of condescension in her voice, very light, but  _ there _ .

I want to provoke her further.

“Maybe they are just unlucky?”

She nods. I can tell by the roll of her eyes exactly what she thinks of ‘luck’.

“Maybe so. I cannot say I am unlucky. I had a head start. I had mentors. But I can also say  _ many _ people could be  _ luckier _ if they went for what they want, and I assure you, Mr. Snow, I  _ always _ go for what I want. I may not always get it, but I  _ will _ chase it to the ends of the world, if necessary.”

The way she looks at me when she says that makes me shiver. How strange that this polite, perfectly nice woman would shift so easily into… whatever  _ this _ is. I want to say femme fatale, but that is not quite it. Femme fatales are portrayed as sexy, but Sansa Stark, she’s not trying to seduce. No more than a lioness wants to seduce a zebra.

“That’s the spirit, I guess. Very well. What does Sansa Stark like to do in free time?”

“Many things,” she shrugs. Something changes, again, in her stance. I cannot quite figure it out, but it causes a blush to return to my cheeks for some reason. It’s in her eyes, her voice,  _ everything _ \-- Sansa Stark is a mystery, I realize. She shifts like the tides.

“I like to weave. Play the cello. Horseback riding. My interests are quite…  _ diverse _ , Mr. Snow.”

Somehow, I don’t think she’s just talking about hobbies.

“Weave? That’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

“Mm, yes, you would say that.”

I try not notice the way she curls a lock of hair around her finger.

“Weaving is… there is power in it, Mr. Snow, old power. It helps one think. Focus. I am well aware men not often value the work of women,” she snorts. It is oddly unladylike, in her. “Or their power.”

I bristle.

“It’s all about power, then?”

“Of course Mr. Snow. Power is what moves the world.”

“Quite a harsh way of thinking, no?”

“Perhaps,” she grins. “Yet true.”

I want to deny it, but even I know there’s a certain truth in there. Plus, when you’re Sansa Stark, youngest billionaire in Westeros, likely in the world, it’s ridiculous to expect otherwise. She’s not a college student like me.

Makes one wonder how far a woman like this would go for her power.

The interview doesn’t go much further than that. A few questions, here and there, inconsequential things. I can’t shake the feeling that Sansa Stark is watching me far too closely. It makes my skin crawl -- something I am  _ definitely _ not used to. And not necessarily in a bad way, either. A bit like standing too close to a high voltage cable. The oddest combination of attraction -- I am adult enough to admit that -- and repulsion.

I don’t quite know what to think. Then again, I’ll never see her again. Sam will get better, the story will run, she’ll be… whatever she is, and does, and I’ll be back to my studies. With time, this will be nothing but a chance encounter in my life. That one day I met Sansa Stark, billionaire extraordinaire.

When I leave Winterfell, though, it doesn’t feel like it’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG. I've been writing my own fiction *and* been sick *and* yeah, I am all-around terrible. I hope y'all are not too disappointed with this chapter. D: 'cuz I am. Heh.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa contemplates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and hopefully sweet. ;) No, I haven't forgotten this!  
> Hope y'all enjoy.

Sansa Stark always loved being a woman.

It is one of the very few things that remain from her time pre-... everything, really. No matter what, though, she always did, and she suspects always will, love being a woman.

Not only that, but she’s always had a special fondness toward the womanly arts, or those more commonly associated with women, anyway. Singing, dancing, weaving, playing certain instruments; she loves all these things nobody does any longer, not in the technological days. Probably not ever. Sansa is well aware female activities were always put lower in the totem pole of relevance than stereotypical male ones.

Doesn’t matter to her.

Which is why, after a hard day at work, she finds herself weaving. Sometimes it’s knitting, sometimes sewing, but more often than not, she weaves.

The loom is brand new, but made in a medieval fashion. It is a work of art in and of itself, and _very_ expensive, but she doesn’t much care. It was worth every penny she spent on it. Currently, she works on a rather elaborate tapestry featuring, well... unicorns.

She loves being a woman, but sometimes she loves being a girl, too.

Her mind is not quite on her work, though. It’s somewhere else altogether, on a dark-haired boy with pale gray eyes that somehow resembles her father so much it makes her chest twinge. She should call her dad sometime soon.

Of course, _that_ boy’s lovely face did not inspire many paternal feelings in her. Quite the opposite, really. If she was honest to herself, her feelings weren’t at _all_ like those of a daughter.

It was to be expected. He was the complete opposite of what she had always wished for. He was dark-haired, unassuming, humble. She could tell. She’d become very good at reading people for a reason. It wasn’t that hard to read Jon Snow.

He seemed like such a sweet boy. A Good Boy if there ever was one. Oh, she’s sure that under that sullen attitude of his, there’s some fire, and part of her giggles at the prospect of uncovering that fire, but truly.

Jon Snow was every bit unthreatening. He didn’t seem the type to pressure, to strong-arm, to harass a woman. Quite the opposite. She has seen only very little of him, but she suspects he is the type who will fold over and do his best to please a woman with a prick of one’s fingers. The type a girl can wrap around her little finger in three seconds flat, just for paying attention to him.

That is: he’s perfect.

She smiles to herself.


End file.
